Maybe tucked away in the attic, or hidden in the basement is the playful creature I once was. Swirling skirts in stained glass shadows. Wildflowers and dragonflies landing on ball cap. Laughing at silliness and warped humour. Wearing 10 bracelets on each arm. Giving out tiny glass vials of pixie dust. Writing, if not always publishing sortaerotica. Her room might be lightened by the glow of a computer screen, or a beam of dust-mote dancing sunlight.

But there is a long spiraling staircase between the two. Always has been. Never able to meet on the middle landing; sit, talk, and stay even for very long.

My life feels stale – like ginger-ale left out over night, or crackers unwrapped on a humid afternoon. Writing – lacking any sparkle and serendipity. Makes me feel like changing site title and tag line:

What do you think of my cereal analogy re how I feel about life, writing, blogging? Or should I try for something witty and lighter in tone? ‘Fraid my wit is in the basement, so I’ll have to leave that up to you.